Shadow of the Moon
by blackdragonsghost
Summary: All is fair in love and war, so they say, and Damien and Gerald find themselves in a situation that counts as a bit of both. The only way they're getting out alive is together. Either way, Erna will never be the same. Slash, Violence, Evil-Gerald-ness!
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Well, here it is, my very first fanfic! Or at least, the first that I'm letting other people read; I've had fragments of plots going around in circle in my head for years. I promised myself that if I ever did start writing them down, I'd start with a few for the tragically under-represented fandom of the Coldfire Trilogy. I love the series, and I firmly believe that Gerald/Damien is the best slash pairing in existence - and now I'm finally contributing! Yippee! Anyway, this takes place when they are traveling to Mount Shaitan - I was inspired by that hint of 'something stronger, yet subtler' that Damien felt when they completed the bond. Also ignores the inconvenient and frankly irritating rule about 'no sex when you're undead'. Accompanying soundtrack: Shadow of the Moon by Blackmore's Night, for which this fic is named, and Night Ride Across the Caucasus by Loreena McKennitt. _

_Disclaimer: Tragic as it is, I have no claim to anything Coldfire-Trilogy-related, all of which belongs to C.S. Friedman. _

_Warnings: Slash, violence, contains Gerald Tarrant (really, he's an entire category of warnings unto himself, isn't he?)_

_A.N.2: Ms. Friedman claims she doesn't see the appeal of Gerald/Damien fics. Seriously? Is she kidding? I can't believe she can't see the subtext in the books - she wrote it in the first place!_

_A.N.3: Anyone reading this who likes to think that Damien's incorruptible, you'd better run for the hills. Seriously. I like the whole 'good triumphs over evil' theme as much as anyone else, but I like 'Gerald Tarrant triumphs over everything' theme even better, so Damien's in for a very dark surprise. Not for the faint of heart: here be monsters. Abandon hope, ye who enter here. Get the point? Good._

"_**Could you live with yourself, knowing that a part of me was in your soul, and would be until one of us died?"**_

For a moment, the cave was silent. Damien tried to speak, to toss out some casual answer that would satisfy the Hunter's question, but for once he couldn't.

_Just say it. Say something - anything! It's only for a day or two, it's a necessary evil - something! Don't let him see the truth..._

Damien drew a deep breath, fighting to keep his voice steady. What came out of his mouth, though, was not what he had intended to say. "Doesn't sound all that different, really."

The Hunter's eye narrowed, the hungry black lightening back into grey; he looked confused, a rare state for him. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Damien instinctively took a step back, cursing his loose tongue, and Tarrant was on his feet in an instant: moving with unnatural swiftness despite his wounds, his quicksilver eyes piercing right through the priest's defenses. "Now is not the time for secrets, Vryce."

_That's rich, coming from you._ The words were on the tip of Damien's tongue, but he swallowed them: it was too late to try and distract Tarrant from what he'd let slip, and provoking a fight wasn't going to help his case at all. Although it probably couldn't make his plight much worse, either; the Hunter wasn't going to like what came next. Instead, he decided to take his chances with honesty and said softly, "I really don't think you want me to explain, Gerald. I don't think you're going to like the answer."

Tarrant's eyes narrowed even further, and Damien felt the chill of dread coil through him. Why, oh why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut? He'd spent so long burying his feelings regarding the Hunter, pretending they didn't even exist, that he'd almost succeeded in forgetting: now it was all churning through him again, threatening to turn him inside out. If Tarrant realized what he'd been trying so fervently to conceal - then Damien might as well give up now. It was hard enough to resist corruption just being around Tarrant: if the adept realized just how great his influence over Damien was, the priest was lost.

Tarrant had been studying him in silence for several moments now, and Damien was just beginning to hope that the truth would escape him, when he saw the light of realization flash in silvery eyes. A slow smile spread across the Hunter's face, and Damien felt his blood run cold; that smile was entirely too knowing.

The Hunter took another step toward him, eyes sparkling through the darkness, his voice dropping to a low, silken purr. Damien had never heard him use that tone before; it was soft, almost intimate, yet simultaneously chilling. "Oh, I don't know about that, Vryce. Why don't you tell me the truth this time, and we'll find out?"

Damien swallowed hard. This was very, very bad.

He didn't realize quite how bad until he felt his back hit warm stone. Somehow, he'd wound up backing all the way into the wall; he was now effectively cornered, and he could feel cold dread trickling down his spine like ice water. He had always fought to deny that he was afraid of the Hunter, much as he had tried to deny... _other_ feelings... but he was painfully aware that he wasn't always very successful. The Hunter did scare him, even if it was in a different way than he scared most people. Damien wasn't afraid of Tarrant because he thought the man might kill him: he was afraid of Tarrant because the elegant, fastidiously arrogant adept had somehow managed to capture his heart, and could have broken Damien without even trying.

Struggling to calm his racing heart, Damien managed to force out, "Don't do this, Gerald. Just - if you don't trust me with that kind of bond, then just say so."

Tarrant studied him a moment longer, then a faint smirk curled his pale, perfect lips. "Very well, Vryce. I think I can trust you - after all, what reason could you have to betray me? You're hardly going to join up with Calesta: we both know your views on that kind of... _corruption_."

Damien's mouth went dry. _Oh, shit. He knows. _

The Hunter drew a knife from beneath his cloak; Damien tried his hardest to follow his actions without thinking about the man's incredible grace, the flawless elegance so present in his every movement... he was failing terribly. He felt a chill run across his skin as the adept pressed his fingertip against the point of the blade, drawing blood. Damien knew from previous injuries that the Hunter's blood was still red, but in the shimmering fae-light inside the cave the droplet glistened a strange purple-black.

Damien had an unpleasant suspicion of where this was going, and it was confirmed when Tarrant held his hand out, the message clear in his eyes. Praying his hand wasn't shaking as much as the rest of him, Damien reached out and grasped the Hunter's wrist, leaning forward slightly to lick the droplet of blood from the other man's fingertip...

...and a tidal wave of sheer _power_ slammed into him, sending him reeling back against the stone. Terror pulsed through his veins, blocking out everything else, as the Hunter's hunger writhed to life in his mind. The icy chill of the adept's presence was flooding his body, twisting deep into his soul - and Damien could feel his defenses crumbling without resistance. The blockades that he had built over his years as a priest, the lines of faith and strength that no demon should be able to cross, seemed to melt away: it was a though... a though somehow, on some level, his very soul recognized Tarrant. Accepted him. _Wanted_ him.

That's when a truly sickening thought occurred to Damien. Through the partial channel, he was sometimes able to sense hints of Tarrant's thoughts and emotions: with this new strength, wouldn't Tarrant be able to Work the bond the other way, and much more effectively? Had he just given Tarrant a back door into his soul?

_Oh, who am I kidding? Whether he knows or not, these feelings are still there. Falling in love with the Darkest Prince of Hell isn't in the texts, but it's still bound to be a cardinal sin. I'm probably consigned to hell anyway, might as well go with it._

When he heard the soft laughter, he thought for a moment he was imagining it, but then the crushing tide of fear receded enough for him to breathe again. Gasping like a landed trout, Damien opened his eyes to find Tarrant only inches away, completely healed and looking at him with hunger of an entirely different sort.

"I had no idea my methods had been so successful." the Hunter murmured, his silvery eyes gleaming in the lamplight as he studied Damien curiously, his laughter actually reflected in those eyes for once.

Damien felt his throat clench shut and shifted, pressing himself a little further back against the stone. Surely, Tarrant hadn't been _trying_ to get this reaction out of him?

The Hunter's smile transformed into a far-more-familiar smirk. "_Really_, Vryce, I've been trying to seduce you since we met. I just hadn't realized that it was working."

That declaration effectively rendered Damien speechless. The Hunter laughed again, even softer this time, and closed the final distance between them. Before the stunned priest could even process the movement, let alone react, Tarrant leaned close and pressed his lips against Damien's.

In his shock, Damien let his eyes fall shut. The Hunter's lips were soft and cool, yet firm and demanding; still in a state of shock at having his erstwhile archenemy kiss him, when the Hunter's tongue pressed against his lips Damien's mouth opened of its own accord.

Slender fingers found their way into the priest's dark hair and tightened slightly, holding him steady. The Hunter's teeth were sharp against Damien's lips and his mouth tasted of blood and winter and shadows, but it was undeniably the best kiss of Damien's entire life. Tarrant definitely knew what he was doing; at the moment, his tongue was doing things that really shouldn't be even be possible, let alone legal. Damien moaned involuntarily and his hands lifted instinctively, finding the adept's shoulder blades and pressing the lithe, icy form closer against his own. His head was spinning from a mixture of desire and oxygen deprivation, but with the Hunter's mouth devouring his own like that it was hard to remember exactly why breathing was so important.

Finally Tarrant pulled back from Damien, just enough to allow the priest to breathe, and he finally did remember that oxygen was necessary to survival. Although, the odds on survival probably weren't all that good right now anyway; he was painfully aware that most of the Hunter's conquests ended up dead or insane, and he was even more painfully aware that he simply didn't care anymore.

He forced his eyes open and found himself gazing into two brilliant silver pools. The cracked ice of Tarrant's normal mask was gone, giving way to a measureless depth that took Damien's breath away all over again. He had an insane urge to wrap his arms around the Hunter and never let go: Calesta and his plans be damned, he wanted Tarrant. He wanted to stay with him forever, stay by his side and protect him. It was a ridiculous impulse, Damien knew - but he also knew that it wasn't likely to go away any time soon.

Tarrant's sinfully talented mouth curved into a smile, the light in his eyes softening just slightly. "You might want to learn how to block your thoughts from the bond sometime, Damien." he purred, his free hand lifting to trace along the priest's jawline, his touch feather-light and deliciously cool rather than the icy chill it had once been.

Damien felt his heart miss a beat. _He called me Damien - that's got to be a good sign, right?_

He swallowed, hard, and choked out, "I didn't think you... that you'd be interested."

Tarrant chuckled softly and pressed forward against Damien. Damien's breath caught in his throat again; the adept's body was every bit as lithe and strong as it looked. His hands drifted unconsciously over Tarrant's back: the man might have been slender, but under that alabaster skin he was as sleekly muscled as a panther.

A back corner of Damien's brain was thinking irritably that while the breathless sensation was all well and good, it had better ease up soon, or he might actually pass out.

The Hunter's hands had drifted down to Damien's arms at some point, and they now tightened slightly, pulling them even closer together. Damien couldn't tear his eyes from Tarrant's face; the perfect curve of his mouth, his shining grey eyes flecked with dazzling silver, half-shielded by dark lashes, the look of undeniable invitation in those eyes...

Oh, to hell with it. Literally.

_I'm already damned anyway. If not just for letting Gerald live, then definitely for wanting him like this. We've only got a day or two left; why not enjoy that time?_

And then, a thought that verged on hysteria: _Oh, wonderful. I'll probably end up stuck with him in Hell. An eternity of sarcastic comments on my misguided attempts to 'save' him. Well, why not?_

Judging by the flash of amusement in Tarrant's eyes, he had heard that part as well. Making a pleased sound in the back of his throat, the adept leaned forward and captured Damien's mouth once more.

Things got a little blurry from that point. Damien was dimly aware of being pulled to the cave floor, but his mind was far more focused on Tarrant: Tarrant, whose slender hands were swiftly divesting Damien of his clothing, whose golden hair spilled through Damien's eager fingers like strands of finest silk, whose cool mouth was working wickedly over every inch of exposed skin. Damien surrendered completely, giving himself up to sensation; he knew he didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of resisting, not when the beautiful creature straddling him was offering what he had desperately wanted for the last two years.

Even though he still hated to admit it, it was the truth; Damien had wanted Gerald Tarrant almost from the moment that they met. His family, pagans though they were, had a strict anti-homosexual view of the world, and Damien had always tried to repress that side of himself ever since he became consciously aware of it. He suspected that might have something to do with why his relationships never worked out; deep down, he knew he wasn't going to be happy with _any_ woman. Ciani, sharp as she was, had learned of his secret soon after they started dating; she had even suspected his attraction to Tarrant.

_You're falling for him, aren't you?_ she had asked him that night in the rahklands, when he had told her of the channel the Hunter had forged between them. _There's no other reason I can see that would persuade you to suffer like that, for the sake of feeding a monster that your entire religion condemns. _

And that was when Damien first admitted the truth, to her and to himself; yes, he was falling for Gerald Tarrant, Lord of Jahanna, the Darkest Prince of Hell. Ciani had looked at him with pure sympathy in her eyes, and had taken his hand in hers. _Damien, I really don't know what to say. All I wish is for you to be happy, but in all honesty I can't see how that can happen now. Even if you could overcome your moral objections, I can't see Gerald being interested in that kind of a relationship - with anyone, not just you. At the same time, if he finds out how you feel, there's a good chance he'll kill you just for daring to feel that way about him. Whatever happens, though, I wish you luck._

He'd apologized, then, and asked her what was going to happen to his relationship with her. Ciani had just smiled sadly. _I would like to think that we will always be friends, Damien, but I can't stay with you. We both know our relationship was on the rocks before now: I can't be with you, knowing that you love someone else, watching you slide away from me into the darkness. I really am sorry, Damien, but it's over. _

That was the real reason that he and Ciani had split up, and it had happened much sooner than Tarrant believed. That conversation had taken place on one of those long, cold nights when they believed that Tarrant was dead; those awful nights when Damien had thought that, yet again, he had lost the person he cared about before things even had a chance to start. He would never be able to put into words the relief that had surged through him when he saw Tarrant's coldfire sword, knew that there was a chance that he was alive...

And now, they really did have a chance. He had believed that maybe Ciani was right, that that there wasn't any hope that Tarrant would reciprocate his feelings, but now - it was hard to keep doubting, when the Hunter's lean body was molded to his own, trailing fevered kisses across his skin. Shaking himself out of his shock, Damien was returning Tarrant's attentions now, and he was pleased to find that the Hunter was _extremely_ responsive. It took Damien a minute to find his way past the layers of velvet and silk that the Hunter perpetually wore, but the keening sound of pleasure that slipped from the adept's lips when he succeeded was more than worth the effort. As Tarrant's slim body arched in pleasure, Damien caught a glimpse of his face: lips parted, silver eyes shining like stars, pupils dilated in pleasure and lust.

Then the Hunter pinned him down, his inhuman strength more than a match for Damien's muscular bulk, and reality blurred into a dream. The world seemed to fall away, and there was only himself and Gerald Tarrant. It didn't matter that they came from different worlds, that Tarrant was a demon and Damien was a mortal priest: all that mattered was that they were together.

When the ecstasy that had wrapped itself around Damien loosened enough for him to think coherently again, he found himself still lying in the darkened cave, with Gerald Tarrant twined contentedly around him. The Hunter was lying mostly draped across him, that same strange smile on his face as he stared intently at Damien. The priest tried to shake the dazed feeling off and manage some kind of comprehensible speech.

"Wow. That was..."

Words failed him at that point, but Tarrant just smiled more widely. "Indeed." he purred, resting his head against Damien's shoulder, looking more content than Damien had ever seen him. "Out of curiosity... how long?"

Damien knew exactly what he meant; it was hard to misinterpret when the bond was inundating him with Tarrant's thoughts and emotions. It probably wasn't as strong as what Tarrant could feel coming from him, but he could feel Tarrant's amusement and curiosity - mingled with something deeper that made his heart ache with hope. Was it possible that Tarrant actually cared about him?

"Since the rakhlands." Damien admitted softly, wrapping his arm gently around the adept and pulling him just a little closer. "That's why Cee broke up with me, actually: she said that she still liked me, but that she wasn't going to hang around to 'watch me slide into the darkness'. I think it actually scared her a bit. I was trying to keep it a secret, but that night after Senzei died, when you didn't come back..."

Damien couldn't keep talking, but he tentatively pushed the memory toward Tarrant: the uncertainty, the panic, the terrible grief and the soul-wrenching guilt for being the one to drive the Hunter away. Tarrant didn't reply verbally, but Damien felt a wave of understanding flow through the bond - and something else, something he had scarcely dared to hope for from the cold, inhuman adept.

Gathering what was left of his courage, Damien dared to ask, "You?"

A moment of silence, then, before Tarrant whispered, "Briand."

"_What?_" Genuinely shocked, Damien twisted his neck to stare at the adept, dumbfounded. "Since we _met?_"

Tarrant nodded, his eyes gleaming with wry humor. "Rather sickening, isn't it? The Hunter, scourge of two continents, falling at first sight for a priest." He shook his head slightly, lips curving upward again. "You were doing a very good job of hiding your feelings, you know. I had no idea - and I certainly wasn't going to be the first one to say anything."

Damien was silent a moment longer, then he said softly, "I just wish I'd said something sooner. We don't have long, now."

Tarrant hesitated, then shook his head, golden hair gleaming in the combination of fae- and lantern-light. "Don't worry about that for now." he whispered, reaching up to trace Damien's jaw again, his silver eyes uncharacteristically soft.

Damien smiled a bit himself, then, and settled back against the warm volcanic stone, tightening his hold on the adept - _his _adept, he thought with a flash of warmth and affection. Yes, they were probably both going to die tomorrow - but as long as they had each other, it couldn't be that bad, could it?

_Review? Yes? Please? I'm planning future chapters: please, feedback MOST welcome! _


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Well, here it is, second chapter of first fic ever! Thanks to Michi-chan2 for adding my story to Alerts: it's wonderful to know someone's enjoying this thing. Also, readers be warned: there will be a fair bit of Ciani-bashing in this chapter, I never liked her and that's not about to change. Accompanying soundtrack: Samhain Eve by Damh the Bard, and End Of All Hope by Nightwish._

_Disclaimer: Me no own. Clear?_

_Warnings: Same as last time, my friends._

_Of course, he just had to make a show out of it,_ Damien thought to himself as he glanced fondly at his sleeping comrade. _Lover,_ he corrected himself mentally, his grin widening at the thought.

In spite of all odds, he and Tarrant had both survived the tumultuous defeat of Calesta. Damien had been certain that it was over for both of them - but Tarrant had cheated death yet again. For whatever inscrutable reasons, the Iezu mothership had reanimated him after he died to kill Calesta: Karril claimed that she had done it out of gratitude.

_Calesta was out of control, he'd already broken most of our most sacred laws,_ the Iezu of Pleasure had told Damien afterward. _Our Mother wasn't happy about that, but she didn't want to kill one of her own children. The Hunter took care of that for her; she had to show her gratitude somehow._

Show her gratitude she had. Tarrant was free now; he still possessed his full powers and was technically undead, but the Unnamed's hold on him was broken. The scar on his cheek, proof of the Unnamed's wrath, had finally healed; he was free now, to do what he wanted, without the previous restrictions. Unfortunately, his system overtaxed by healing the damage done by Shaitan's lethal fae, Tarrant had blacked out. Damien, with some help from Karril, had managed to carry the unconscious adept here, to a moderately comfortable cave away from the volcano.

Damien shifted against the hard stone and looked back down at Tarrant. The adept was showing his arrogance, even in a near-comatose state; sometime during the past hour he had shifted in his sleep until he was mostly draped across Damien, apparently trying to leach the heat energy out of him. There was a definite proprietary aspect in the way he was wrapped around Damien, but Damien didn't intend to complain. If association with Damien could make the Hunter even a little bit more human, then it was well worth it.

Another smile flickered across his face as he thought. With Tarrant's obligation to the Unnamed dissolved, he would have no need for being the Hunter anymore; there would be no further need for the Hunt. Damien's vow to destroy the Hunter might well have been fulfilled, even if it was in a different way than he had originally intended.

Tarrant chose that moment to stir, muttering something under his breath in a language Damien didn't recognize. Damien automatically reached up to stroke the soft, Core-golden hair soothingly.

"It's all right, Gerald, you're safe. It's over."

The Hunter's silver eyes snapped open and he stared up at Damien, a momentary look of fear flashing across his face. Seeing his reassuring expression, the Hunter slowly relaxed, his lean body easing back into Damien's embrace.

"What happened?" he asked, his usually smooth voice hoarse and shaken.

Damien kept stroking Tarrant's hair, a soothing motion the reassured both of them; Damien was still absorbing the relief that had bloomed in his heart when he saw that Tarrant was alive. "The mother of the Iezu brought you back. Karril said that was her way of thanking us for dealing with Calesta."

Tarrant exhaled softly and melted into Damien's arms, resting his head on the priest's shoulder. They were silent for a few moments, letting the truth sink in; they were alive, they were together. Everything was going to be fine.

Then Tarrant lifted his head, his grey eyes flashing with determination. "How long was I out?"

Damien blinked. "Uh - about eight hours. Why?"

"We need to get back to the Forest, as soon as the sun sets." Tarrant said firmly, his eyes glittering. "I spent eight hundred years creating the Forest, shaping it to my needs: I won't lose it now, to that self-deluding fool of a Patriarch. He started this crusade: if he wants a new Holy Way, then that's what he's going to get."

Damien's insides dropped into queasy hell. This was _not_ how he had pictured this conversation. He swallowed, hard, letting go of the other man. "Gerald - don't you think you're moving a little fast here? This doesn't have to turn into a war -"

Damien's voice faltered at the look on Tarrant's face. The Hunter shook his head slowly, an almost pitying look in his eyes. "Damien. I've made a point of not pretending to be something I'm not, but it seems you've managed to delude yourself regarding my nature without any help from me. Regardless of whether the Unnamed have any control over me or not, I have no intention of relinquishing my position as the Hunter."

Damien sprang to his feet, pacing toward the cave mouth, struggling to control his emotions. He felt as though the ground had just dropped out from beneath his feet. He must have heard wrong; surely, Tarrant couldn't really mean that? The adept claimed to love Damien - and he must, he couldn't possibly fake his emotions through the bond - so that had to go at least part of the way to redeeming him, didn't it? Granted, Tarrant had never even hinted that he was considering changing his ways - but he was free of the Unnamed now, why shouldn't he change?

_Because he doesn't see any need to,_ a small voice whispered in the back of Damien's mind. _Because he knows that you won't turn away from him now, and there's no reason for him to risk all that he's worked for. _

Decades ago, some overambitious bard had written a lengthy ballad about the Holy Wars. He had vanished soon after; while some maintained that the Church had wanted to stop him from making them look bad, Damien suspected Tarrant might well have tracked the fellow down and killed him in revenge for butchering the traditional tune so badly. Despite the fairly mediocre efforts of said bard, the song had a knack for insinuating itself into one's head, and Damien couldn't quite keep the chorus from running through his mind as he stared at the emotionless stone of the cave wall.

_They marched with their heads high and proud_

_But not a man among their forces returned_

_And all the rivers of Erna ran red with blood_

_And the funeral pyres like a thousand suns burned_

Damien could almost see it in his mind's eye, the destruction that Tarrant's power could have wreaked if turned on a dreadfully unprepared army - and unless he found a way to talk the Hunter out of his anger, he was about to witness that slaughter first-hand.

Damien closed his eyes, fighting down nausea. This wasn't how this was supposed to go! "So that's it?" he whispered, struggling against the tears that threatened to fall. "It's right back to square one?"

Slender fingers touched his cheek, light and cool. He could feel a hint of sympathy in that contact, radiating through their bond. Apparently, even Tarrant's death hadn't managed to sever that link. "It doesn't have to be." came the Hunter's voice, soft as his touch.

Opening his eyes, Damien stared into pools of liquid silver. "What do you mean?"

The Hunter's eyes softened, and he trailed his touch gently over Damien's jaw, a more tender caress than Damien had ever expected of him. "I love you, Damien Vryce. I don't know how it's even possible, but I do. And even though I don't intend to give up my role as the Hunter, I don't want to lose you either." His voice dropped a little lower, taking on an almost seductive tone. "Why don't you join me? The Church won't take you back after this: in the Patriarch's eyes, you're no better than me. He only allowed you to come with me in the first place because he hoped that you'd die on this quest - that way he wouldn't have your blood on his hands. He used you and threw you away: I would never do that to you."

Damien turned away again, mind reeling, feeling as though his world had just been turned inside out. Tarrant had never made the offer outright like that before; it had been there all along, in subtle hints and veiled suggestions, but never stated aloud. He couldn't believe he was even considering this: how far down the path to damnation must he already be, to seriously contemplate this offer? Yet, everything the Hunter said was true - and it wasn't as though he had anywhere else to go...

Realization struck Damien then, like a wall of icy water. It was over. He'd thought to redeem the Hunter, to turn him back to the light - and he had failed, plain and simple. It was a lost cause. Now, he had a single choice left before him; throw his life away in the defense of the people who had betrayed him, or stay with the one person who had ever truly loved him.

It wasn't that difficult a choice, now that he thought about it in those terms.

A slender hand came to rest on his shoulder, the perfectly manicured fingers light as a feather and cool as the sighing night wind. "Well, Damien?"

Somehow, in spite of everything, Damien's voice was steady, though hoarse. "We both know I can't leave you now, Gerald. I can't stay neutral, either - not after everything we've been through together." He turned back to face the Hunter, seeing the flicker of triumph in pale, silvery eyes. "You win, Gerald. Just - please. Don't kill them all."

A smile curved the Hunter's mouth - and somehow, that pleased expression was more terrifying than the most fearsome threat. "Of course not." he purred, one hand curling against the back of Damien's neck as he leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss against the ex-priest's jaw. "After all, I have to leave some of them alive to carry the warning back, don't I?"

Ciani shook her head, pushing her hair back from her face. "This is suicide." she muttered under her breath, struggling to control her impatience and dread. She'd returned to Jaggonath to collect some of her notes on the rakh - and found the city under martial law. The Patriarch had declared a Crisis of the Faith, which gave him greater power than any person save the King himself. He was conscripting the people of Jaggonath in a frenzy of military preparation, and had issue an incontrovertible proclamation: any and all sorcerers and adepts within Jaggonath city limits must join the Church's army immediately. Any who resisted would be tried for heresy, and quite possibly executed.

Just to compound her dilemma, one of the leaders of the crusade - Andrys Tarrant - had managed to capture the heart of one of Ciani's best friends. She and Narilka Lessing had known each other for years, though they had drifted apart shortly before the demons from the rakhlands came. Now, Narilka was following her beloved Andrys into battle, since she enjoyed the same promised protection from the Hunter that Ciani had once possessed - and Ciani couldn't bear the thought of that innocent girl walking into the Forest without a friend at her side.

Now, the crusading army was a mile within the southern reaches of the Forest, heading for the Hunter's keep. The Forest seemed to be sleeping, oddly: the trees were utterly silent, no animals stirring, no signs of the unlife that usually filled the shadowy woodland. The Patriarch claimed that it was a sign that Calesta had killed the Hunter, and that all that remained now was to cleanse the Forest of his remaining evil: Ciani, though, couldn't quite shake the feeling that those skeletal trees were merely biding their time. She was riding in the vanguard with the other fae-Workers, next to Narilka and Andrys. Looking over at the young girl riding next to her, her pale face framed by gleaming black hair, Ciani couldn't hold back any longer.

"Nari, don't you think... well, that this is too easy?" Ciani whispered, careful to make sure that none of the Church warriors were within earshot.

Andrys looked at her askance, clearly wondering why she was questioning their luck, but Narilka nodded solemnly as she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes, actually, I do." she said in her soft, throaty voice, her dark eyes troubled. "If the Hunter was truly dead, I think the Forest would be out of control, all its inhabitants attacking anything that moved. This feels... wrong."

Ciani nodded. "That's what I thought, too." She gestured at the trees around them. "This place was a whirlpool of fae long before the Hunter came: if he was gone, at the very least, it should have reverted to its wild state. It's too quiet - like it's trying to lull us into a false sense of security."

Andrys was starting to look deeply unsettled now. "You think... maybe he's still alive?"

There was a moment of heavy silence, then all hell broke loose.

Close a hundred huge, snarling white wolves leaped from the trees all around them, red eyes blazing and ivory fangs dripping. The neatly ordered ranks dissolved into chaos, men and women screaming in panic. Ciani grabbed her springbolt, kneeing her horse closer to Narilka's - then one of the wolves lunged straight at them. She caught a glimpse of eyes that burned like hellfire and a gaping scarlet maw lined with lethal fangs, then her horse screamed in terror and bolted. She caught hold of the reins and tried to calm the beast, but it was insensible with terror: all she could do was cling to the saddle as everything dissolved into a blue motion... then a heavy weight impacted her side, and she fell, hard.

She landed on her side, completely winded. Gasping, she pushed herself up on one arm - just in time to see one of the albino wolves tear the throat out of her horse. She was in a clearing, some distance from the battle - not far enough, though, to escape the dreadful cries coming from the Church's holy warriors.

The wolf released the dead horse and let the corpse's head fall limply to the ground as it turned toward Ciani, mouth dripping with blood and saliva. Still gasping Ciani raised her springbolt - but the wolf made no movement, either forward or back. It's tongue lolled slightly, and the adept was suddenly stricken with the deeply unnerving impression that the canine was laughing at her. She glanced at the weapon she held - and realized that the firing mechanism was shattered. _Oh, hell._

Slowly and painfully, Ciani climbed to her feet. The wolf stayed put, its red eyes mocking her. Clutching her bruised arm, she glared at it. "Well? Are you going to attack me, or just stare me to death?"

"Now, now, Lady Ciani - that's no way to talk to one of your hosts. Where are your manners?"

Ciani nearly leapt out of her skin as the all-too-familiar voice crawled through her mind, cold and mocking and insidious. The Hunter himself stepped from the shadowed trees, smirking triumphantly. When Ciani saw who was with him, though, she nearly collapsed again.

"_**Damien?**_"

The Knight of the Flame was standing close at Tarrant's side, his face expressionless. Ciani felt a stab of hope pierce her heart - maybe Tarrant didn't intend to slaughter them after all? - but that hope faded slightly when she looked into Damien's eyes. There was almost no recognition there, no trace of warmth: the priest's once-brilliant hazel eyes were dark and cold. The eyes of a stranger.

Ciani felt her throat tighten with dread, and she unconsciously gripped the useless springbolt tighter. The wolf that had been staring at her had turned when the two men entered the clearing; it dipped its head momentarily in a sort of bow to the Hunter, then padded over to Damien and nuzzled happily at his side. Automatically Damien ran a hand over the wolf's silky ears, and it sat down on its haunches next to him with a happy swish of its tail. Ciani couldn't believe what she was seeing; a wolf of the Forest, acting as though Damien was a long-lost friend? What the hell was happening?

Seeing her alarm and confusion, the Hunter smiled darkly. "You see, Lady Ciani, there have been a few changes around here. Since Amoril proved untrustworthy, I found myself in need of a new second-in-command. Damien here very kindly offered to fill that post."

Ciani's blood ran cold and she stepped back in horror. "You're lying!" she cried, inwardly praying that was the case. "Damien, you wouldn't -"

"Things change, Cee." Damien said quietly, not meeting her eyes. "As someone once told me... there's no future in pretending not to be something you are."

The world stopped turning. Those were her words, her words that she had spoken so callously that night in the rakhlands - the night she left him for good. After the Master of Lema had been defeated, when he asked her again if they could still be friends, maybe even try to work out their differences: she had told him that there was no chance of that, that even if he hadn't been in love with Tarrant she would have had to leave him, because she was an adept and he was not. She had said that it would never have worked - that she could not deny the reality that she was different from him.

Tarrant glanced at Damien, a faint smile tracing over his face before he turned back to Ciani, his eyes cold and deadly. "You really shouldn't have come here, Lady Ciani. My debt to you is paid: did you think I would spare you?"

"I had no choice!" Ciani cried, desperation breaking through her fear and shock. "The Patriarch declared a Crisis of the Faith: any fae-Worker who didn't aid the Church would be executed for treason! You think I _wanted_ to be on this suicide mission? I was forced, under pain of death - and I couldn't let Narilka walk into this death-trap alone. I've known her since she was a child, but I lost contact with her a few years ago: she's in love with your descendant, Andrys, and she's hell-bent on following him. I had to try to help her, to make her see sense..."

Ciani's voice trailed off helplessly: there was no mercy forthcoming in the Hunter's eyes. He had discharged his debt to her in the rakhlands, she had no protection from his wrath. She knew his laws: good intentions were of no importance. To raise a sword against the Forest was to sign your own death warrant, that law had never been broken, and he was unlikely to start now. In desperation, Ciani turned to Damien - the Church Knight who had once loved her, whose heart she had broken in a moment of selfishness. Despite that bad blood, surely he wouldn't let the Hunter do this: surely, he would save her?

"Damien, please... I'm sorry..."

For an instant, she thought she might have seen tears in Damien's hazel eyes, but then he turned away from her. Her blood ran cold, and she whipped back around to see Tarrant regarding her with icy triumph in his pale, deadly eyes.

"Too late, Lady Ciani. He's mine now."

Then coldfire erupted from the Forest's floor around her, and she screamed as the icy flames enveloped her. As the burning cold consumed her, the last thing she saw was the pure, hungry evil in the Hunter's eyes as he watched her die...

Damien closed his eyes, tears stinging slightly behind his eyelids. A moment later, though, the sensation faded. There was no point in weeping over Ciani; Tarrant was right, she had left him, he owed her nothing. He would give anything to be with Tarrant; if this was the price he had to pay, then so be it.

He felt Tarrant move close behind him, heard the man's soft voice. "She doesn't deserve your grief, Damien. She never did."

Damien drew a deep breath and steadied himself. He turned, and smiled at the Hunter, his hazel eyes calm and bright. "You're right, Gerald. She doesn't."

Tarrant smiled, his slim hand cupping Damien's chin as he moved closer. "I'm so glad you finally see that." he purred, before pressing his mouth to Damien's.

The ex-priest pulled him closer, relishing the feeling of the lean body close against him, the residual fae of the adept's coldfire Working still humming along his skin. Eventually he drew back, smiling at his lover as he reached up and brushed a stray lock of golden hair out of silver eyes. "It really is so much easier this way, isn't it?" he murmured, letting his calloused thumb trail gently along the Hunter's soft lips.

Tarrant returned his smile, one hand idly tracing the sculpted muscles of Damien's chest as he leaned into the ex-priest's embrace. "Absolutely." He kissed his once more, then pulled away, silver eyes glowing with satisfaction. "Come - I want to see the Patriarch's face when he sees you in your rightful place, at my side."

Damien grinned. It had hurt at first, turning his back on everything he believed in - but the pain was gone now. With the echoes of Tarrant's adept-Sight, he could almost See the dark fae coiling around him, clinging to his skin like a lover's caress. The Forest had accepted him now, because he was bound to Tarrant, and because he was bound to the darkness. He had accepted the dark fae's embrace, and it flowed deeply in his soul, cleansing away the remnants of pain and regret, washing away his old life and letting him begin anew.

Without so much as glancing at the body of the woman he had once thought he loved, Damien Vryce turned and followed the Hunter deeper into the Forest.

_Ah, poor Ciani. Well, that's chapter two: next one will be the last. It will also be the darkest one yet, so be warned. The end is coming! (heh heh. Apocalyptic joke, anyone?)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: The last chapter has arrived, folks! Although, should anyone have an idea for continuation or for a sequel, drop me a line in the reviews (reviews? what reviews, you say? Grrr.) and I just might be persuaded to add another chapter. Anyone who's wondering, I made up the bit about Narilka being a prophetess just for the fun of it: plus, it's so much more awful if you see your own doom coming. This chapter is the darkest yet, so read at your own risk. Soundtrack: I Walk Alone by Tarja Turunen, and The Storm by Garth Brooks._

_Warnings: Slash, violence, character death, suicidal themes. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing about the Coldfire Trilogy. _

The moment the wolves appeared out of the trees, Narilka knew it was over.

Few people knew about her gift of prophecy - it was like Divining without sorcery, just brief glimpses of what could come to pass, coming always in her dreams. Since that fateful night when she had met the Hunter for the first time, he visions had been plagued by his face: nearly every time she dreamed of the future, he was there. Sometimes she saw him die, dragged down into a pit of endless darkness, or devoured by searing flames: sometimes she saw him triumphant, the shadow of the Forest falling across all Erna. Always, though, these visions came in her dreams.

Only once had she seen a vision while waking; that had been not long after she met the Hunter. Just before dawn, a powerful trance had swept her away: images of a towering citadel of rainbow crystal, balanced precariously upon a webwork of treacherous faults. She saw a host of black-skinned demons, and the Hunter's face: weary and pale, lined with exhaustion and taught with fear, but his silver eyes burned with power and determination and she knew he would not be defeated. She saw another man, too: a strong, muscular figure in leather armor, carrying a sword, the hilt of which was gold and worked in a pattern of overlapping flames. She had seen him standing at the Hunter's side, haloed by golden light - then the Hunter reached out and laid a hand on the man's shoulder, and the violet unlight of the dark fae swirled forth and enveloped the other man, extinguishing the radiant gold.

She had not known, then, the significance of the man's sword, though she had known it was important. Only recently had she discovered the truth; that was the sword of a Knight of the Flame, one of the Church's sacred sorcerers, sworn to use the fae to fight the battles which the anti-fae doctrine of the Church could not win. Narilka had thought then that the Hunter would kill the man, that he must have been sent to destroy the Hunter and that he himself would be destroyed instead - but now, she saw the truth.

She sat motionless on her horse, trapped in a trance as the battle surged around her. Nothing touched her; the wolves never even glanced at her, the men seemed to part and flow around her like a river around a stone. The Patriarch had tried to withdraw, along with a small knot of Church Knights, and they were defending themselves on the other side of the wide clearing from where Narilka and Andrys were. Everything was noise and motion, blood and death. As she stared at the chaos swirling all around her, a vision began to take shape, a strange translucent vista overlaying the anarchy that surrounded her.

She saw the Forest littered with motionless forms, all the men currently fighting around her lying lifeless on the bloodstained earth. She saw the power of the Forest stretch forth like the shadow of dark wings to envelop all the cities of the north. She saw the people of Jaggonath leading their brief, frightened lives under a pall of constant fear, trembling each sunset with the terror of the Hunter. She saw the dark empire of the Forest grow ever more powerful, and she saw the Hunter, standing atop the tallest tower of his keep and surveying his lands - and the priest stood at his side, his hazel eyes darkened by inner shadows, the blade of his sword stained red with blood.

With a cry Narilka struggled to tear herself free of the vision, her heart hammering in her chest. Fear filled her, fear such as she had never felt before - not even that night when the Hunter came to her. The world swam around her, but she managed to lift her head - and saw him.

The Hunter stepped from the trees, silver-blue sword in hand. There, at his side, was the priest from Narilka's visions. Horror pierced her soul as she saw them, for there was no mistaking it: there was no blood on the priest's sword, not yet, but the shadows had already taken root in his eyes. He was lost... and so was the Church's cause.

Then the force of her visions overwhelmed her and Narilka felt herself slide from the saddle, crying out as pain surged through her mind. Clinging desperately to her horse to keep herself upright, she screamed. "Andrys!"

"Nari!"

The last living Tarrant heard her cry - and he heard the Patriarch's furious shout from the other side of the battlefield.

"Leave her! We must kill the Hunter!"

"Go to hell!" Andrys roared, fury finally overcoming his obedience: hot defiance flared in him, the rebellious spirit that he thought had been crushed the day the Hunter killed his family. He lashed out, kicking the wolf that lunged at him backwards as he wrenched hard on his horse's reins, and by sheer willpower he forced his way through the chaos to Narilka. Driving back another white wolf he dropped from the saddle just as his beloved's strength gave out: Andrys caught her before she could fall, holding her close to him, whispering brokenly over the cacophony of battle.

"God, I'm sorry, Nari... I should never have put you through this. I'll keep you safe now, I promise."

Damien was impressed as he watched the albino wolf pack decimating the Church's forces. Even fear of the Patriarch couldn't outweigh fear of the Hunter, and dozens of men were breaking away from the battle at every opportunity and fleeing. Mostly the conscripts, though - the true believers were fighting relentlessly, but even their religious fervor couldn't overcome the ferocity of the Hunter's own loyal wolves.

Finally, the tipping point was reached. The last of the fanatics were cut down, and the others threw their swords down: the wolves herded them into the center of the clearing, where they hemmed them in, holding them captive. Gesturing for Damien to follow him, Tarrant stepped forward and walked toward the captives.

The sea of wolves parted for him, each canine he passed bowing its head low enough to touch its muzzle to the ground. He reached the inner circle of wolves and stopped, dispassionately surveying his prisoners. A ripple of pure terror flowed through the exhausted, battered captives, but not a word was spoken. Not until Damien moved to stand next to his lover, and a furious voice broke the silence.

"_**YOU!**_"

The Patriarch had a wolf on either side of him, their jaws latched around his arms, but that didn't prevent him from thrashing as his face contorted with rage. "I'll have your head for this, Vryce!"

Tarrant just smirked: Damien shot the captured Patriarch a smug, victorious glance. "Actually, I don't think you're in any position to carry out that threat, _your Holiness._ I don't bow to your authority anymore."

At a gesture from Tarrant, the wolves dragged the protesting man forward and yanked him down so that he was on his knees. The Hunter then stepped aside, motioning Damien forward, his eyes cold as a cloudless winter night. "It seems he still hasn't learned his lesson about respect, Damien. Why don't you demonstrate to the rest of our misguided friends here exactly what happens when they defy me?"

Without an instant's hesitation, Damien drew his sword.

Narilka was clinging to Andrys, barely conscious, but when she heard the Hunter's words she lifted her head. "No." she whispered inaudibly, her hands clinging more tightly to her beloved's tunic as her eyes welled with tears. She knew what was going to happen; she could see phantom images of it dancing in front of her eyes, taunting her with her own helplessness. To see the future, yet be unable to change it: it was the ultimate torture, and Narilka had never felt more lost.

Damien could see the fear in the Patriarch's crystal blue eyes, and he reveled in it. That was something else Tarrant had shown him; the power to be found in another's terror. It fed the dark fae as nothing else could, intoxication and heady. Damien let himself drink in that intoxication as he raised his sword. The Patriarch's eyes widened further, and in desperation he spoke.

"Vryce, get ahold of yourself! Is this how you serve your Church, your God? By betraying us in our hour of need?"

"I serve a different master now." Damien said coldly, and he brought his sword down.

Narilka choked back a cry and looked away, burying her face in Andrys's chest, squeezing her eyes shut as if to block out the horrible sight. Andrys tightened his grip on her convulsively, pressing his cheek against her silky hair and struggling to keep from vomiting. He had already seen more than enough bloodshed in his life, but that callous, emotionless slaying turned his stomach more than anything else.

Damien stepped back as the wolves released the Patriarch's lifeless corpse, shaking the blood from his sword blade. He caught the flash of pride in Tarrant's face, then the Hunter gestured. The two wolves that had restrained the Patriarch turned and burrowed among the crowd of captives, then herded two forward: Andrys Tarrant, his face deathly pale, and Narilka Lessing, who was clinging to Andrys as though her life depended on it. Neither of them made any sound or tried to resist as they were pushed by the wolves some distance from the other captives. Tarrant surveyed the silent, petrified crusaders for a moment more, then a look of ruthless cruelty flashed in his silver eyes.

"Kill them all."

The wolves lunged. Narilka screamed and nearly fainted, and Andrys shuddered and covered her eyes gently. "Nari, love, don't watch..." She clutched at him, her whole body trembling, tears streaming down her pale cheeks as the horrible screams of the dying men filled the silent air of the Forest.

It was over in a matter of moments. The wolves backed away, their white coats stained red with human blood. At a gesture from Tarrant they vanished like wraiths, melting back amongst the trees, leaving only the Hunter, Damien, Andrys, and Narilka alive in the clearing.

Andrys watched the Hunter turn toward them and forced himself to stay perfectly still, tall and proud, his arms wrapped protectively around the trembling Narilka. The Hunter's cold silver eyes, so like his own and yet somehow so alien, swept over them. Then, to Andrys's utter shock, the Hunter gestured to the path that led back out of the Forest.

"Go." His tone was cold, but his expression was just a little more human than Andrys remembered. "This is your last chance. Make sure the people of Erna know what happened here today - and don't even think of trying for my title." Andrys started to stammer out his thanks, but the Hunter just shook his head, eyes warming with a hint of something surprisingly human. "Don't. Just go. This time, you have something to live for." He tilted his head meaningfully at Narilka.

Gratitude filling his heart, Andrys nodded silently and gently shifted his arm around Narilka's shoulders, leading her down the path that lead back to the Forest's border.

When they were alone again, Damien moved to stand at Tarrant side, smiling. "I guess I was more of a positive influence on you than I thought. You wouldn't have done that when we met."

Tarrant smiled back at him, eyes gleaming. "I didn't believe in true love when we met." he said softly, letting Damien draw him into a gentle embrace. "I know better now. I've already made my point, and I've taken enough from young Andrys. He deserves a second chance."

Damien kissed his Core-golden hair gently. "I think we'll make a romantic out of you yet, Gerald." He looked away, across the body-strewn field, and sighed. "You think this will be enough to put an end to the crusade?"

"Possibly." Tarrant said, his expression thoughtful. "I wouldn't count on it too heavily, though: for some reason, irrational behavior seems to be embedded in the human genetic code. The firmer a rule, the more likely they are to break it."

Damien grinned. "You said _they_. I seem to recall hubris being listed as cardinal sin, you know."

"Considering I compiled that list, I certainly ought to know." Tarrant said, smirking as he twined his fingers through Damien's. "We should return to the keep: I'll have some of my servants move these bodies to distribute the nutrients better."

Tarrant continued talking about how the Forest would absorb the component nutrients after the bodies had decomposed, but Damien wasn't really listening. He was too busy smiling and concentrating on the feeling of warmth that washed through him when Tarrant linked their hands together. Yes, he had betrayed his faith and the people who relied on him, but in the end it was all worth it. Damien pressed a last kiss on his lover's pale lips, prompting a smile of mingled amusement and tenderness, then together they melted back into the Forest's shadows.

_Twenty-five years later_

Narilka stood at the window, gazing out across the scene of destruction before her, wondering when it had all gone so wrong. On the horizon she could see a sooty red glow: Sheva was in flames, its houses torched by the servants of the Hunter, the price for their defiance of his decrees. A crusading party of those who had lost their female relatives had assembled and set out to kill the Hunter: in retaliation, Sheva was now being razed to the ground, the rubble set ablaze as a beacon of warning to any others who entertained ideas of defiance.

Narilka sighed. The terrible grief she had once felt was numbed now, leaving her hollow and empty. Andrys had died just seven days ago, finally succumbing to the hereditary heart condition he had battled for so long - the same heart condition that had plagued the Neocount of Merentha. Though their time together had been short, it had been wonderful, no matter how dark the shadows that lay over the land. That was the one reason that, no matter what the atrocities committed, Narilka could never bring herself to hate the Hunter: he had spared her and given her Andrys, and for that, she would always be thankful.

Now, though, her beloved husband was gone. The world held nothing for her anymore: she could only gaze at the ashes of all she had once believed in and wonder what had happened. It seemed so very long ago that the biggest threat had been the lowly faeborn demons that stalked the night: how naive they had all been, to think that they were suffering then! No one had seen the truth: they thought the Hunter was a mere bogeyman, a whispered lie in the night. No one knew how much he had been holding back, how easily he could strip away all that they held dear. They knew now - they knew, too, of the man who ruled at his side. Betrayer, they called him - the Faithless One. Only Narilka knew how it all began, knew that once upon a time that man, Damien Kilcannon Vryce, had possessed the greatest faith of them all.

She didn't blame him anymore, though. She knew now what drew him down into the darkness, what seduced him away from the light. She felt that call herself, as she set the knifeblade against the soft skin of her wrist. Love. Not the pure, clean love that the Terran fairytales told of: the love that rose from the darker longings, love twisted and contorted by the warping fae of Erna. A love that killed, a love that consumed. A love that turned the fae red with the reek of blood.

The knife fell soundlessly to the carpet, followed shortly thereafter by the lifeless form of Narilka Tarrant, the last mortal ever to bear that family name.

"_They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies." - William Penn. _


End file.
